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West Coast Anthology
Jay Thornton Scott Wilson 1. Missing only the manic energy and harmonies of Robert Sledge and Darren Jesse, the other two-thirds of Ben Folds Five, Folds’ solo debut refines his former group’s formula rather than starting from scratch. He’s his own remarkably effective power trio, playing all the bass and drum parts — and most of the guitar — in addition to his primary instrument, the piano.
The songs, a mix of Don’t Shoot Me-era Elton John and medium-strength Randy Newman, are marvels of compact character analysis set to foolproof hooks. Elton John Songs From the West Coast Universal It’s no surprise that Elton still has songs like these up his Versace sleeves or even that lyricist Bernie Taupin still remembers how to be blunt when it counts.
What’s brilliant about Songs goes beyond the reconvening of these writing partners to fashion their tightest songs in 25 years; the playing, production and, especially, John’s singing jell perfectly and refuse to yield to the studio frippery that marred post albums of otherwise strong songs. Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde came out less than a year apart, for crying out loud.
Splitting the difference between the dryly witty World Gone Wrong and Time’s sepulchral heartsickness, Love and Theft is as playful as that ridiculous vaudevillian’s pencil-thin mustache Dylan sports on the back cover and as permanent as the black-and-white image on the front. Bjork Vespertine Elektra The biggest challenge to pop culture’s deceptively conservative sensibilities since Reagan-era Prince, Bjork has become such a household name that Ellen DeGeneres earned the night’s biggest laugh during this year’s Emmy Awards telecast just by wearing a knockoff of a certain goose-neck gown.
She remains mannered and precious and easily lampooned DeGeneres, not Bjork; well, both. And fearless just Bjork. Plays like art, tastes like sugar. Reveal Warner Bros. Reveal’s superficials are laughably ironic: The cover artwork is a blight on the music and the song titles “Saturn Return,” “Beachball” are dumb. By now, though, such camouflage is useless. Every step that the now-three-member R.
Every attempt to fend off the perception that it’s a corporate-music icon is a stumble. From this point on, the fewer records R. The Radiohead singer cheerfully showed up this year on cable’s Space Ghost and, with the band, bolstered South Park’s sagging credibility with a similar appearance. Yorke’s I’m a reasonable man; get off my case mantra on Amnesiac’s opening cut isn’t unfathomable irony or chilly non sequitur; it’s a you’ve gotta fight for your right to party for people Radiohead, its fans, its detractors who, bless ’em, rightfully dread being labeled postmodern.
Amnesiac is party music, slow-burn Motown for eggheads. Tori Amos Strange Little Girls Atlantic Just when a suddenly Tolkien-obsessed world might be looking to stock its refrigerator with Tori Amos’ faerie-goddess mead, the self-consciously ethereal singer leaves her enchanted forest to walk on blood-stained pavement. Her misfired version of the Beatles’ “Happiness Is a Warm Gun” could have scared John Lennon straight out of sonic collage, but the rest of the disc is unerring in its instincts, turning the murdered harpy of Eminem’s “’97 Bonnie and Clyde” into Banquo’s ghost and recasting Slayer’s “Raining Blood” as a solemn epitaph.
A covers disc, concept album and product of Amos’ overambitious but inarticulate imagination, Strange Little Girls should have been a disaster. It’s her best album. It’s hard not to feel warmly tipsy listening to the stunning Ornette Coleman-adorned opener, “Richard Pryor Addresses a Tearful Nation,” a watermark the rest of the disc honorably fails to surpass. Where ‘s Trampoline and ‘s Fuse thrillingly bastardized Tom Waits’ hellish kling-klang-king-of-the-rim-ram-room sonics and cranked up the electron microscope of Henry’s lyrical observations to make something innovative, Scar just settles into the groove those discs etched; on first listening, it might be called Scraps.
It was a nice place to revisit, but he shouldn’t live there. Living up to its title, The Invisible Man is maddeningly abstruse and sometimes forgetful of Eitzel’s underrated knack for melody , as though after years of leaving his diary open, the singer has begun to record his entries in code. But repeat listenings unravel the gauze around Man, allowing listeners to make out more than just the outline of these thirteen skeletal songs.
Even better is Superhits, which was sold at a few shows and, briefly, online. It’s not a good sign that Eitzel or someone at Matador preferred the songs on Man to the four or five selections from Superhits that rank with his best work, but if you can track down a copy of the latter on eBay, the two sets complement each other brilliantly. If not, Man’s “To the Sea” alone is enough to justify both discs.
Yes, the lyrics are slight. Yes, the time-capsule arrangements sometimes border on silliness yeah, baby! But on only its second album, the group achieves such unabashedly warm prettiosity that such complaints are rendered irrelevant.
Top Five Songs 1. Arab Strap “Haunt Me,” from The Red Thread Matador That this brooding Scottish group saved its best song for next to last on its smoothest album is just another sign of maturity outweighing the dyspepsia that was almost too much on its previous albums.
The other songs on this list come first on the albums they represent — arguably a must to gain the attention of fickle listeners. This number, all addictive orchestral loop and hemorrhaging heart, is a small miracle of barely controlled turbulence so transcendent that to have put it first might have caused brain damage in unprepared listeners.
Ivy “Undertow,” from Long Distance Nettwerk Pop hooks are tricky; repeat them too often, and the song becomes obvious and boring. Ivy opens its third disc with a hook that won’t quit, one so good that you don’t mind hearing it as often as the group wants to restate it. Which is a lot. This is what Gates sounds like with this much more quirk. The best song on an outstanding solo debut. Top Ten Albums 1. His story songs about growing up poor and white are gripping and complex, his character sketches generous and insightful.
Throughout, his twangy guitar-based arrangements rage and exult, empathize and forgive — and rock out like lightning bolts [splitting] pine trees down to the roots.
Is this country-rock, roots-rock, alt-country? Label it how you please, but this might just be the genre’s finest album in a quarter century. Musically, its wicked samples and dance-floor-packing beats allude to old-school science-droppers, from Arrested Development to KRS-One to X-Clan, without ever feeling nostalgic.
Indeed, this Party campaigns for the future, championing female equality and blue-collar dignity while dispensing advice both sanitary “Wear Clean Draws” and revolutionary “5 Million Ways to Kill a CEO” , the best being we could all at once retire. But they’re quite different recordings. Loveless’ version is stark and bluesy, emphasizing Patty’s soulful mountain harmonies with duet partner Jon Randall.
Vincent, on the other hand, spotlights her band, the Rage, via an arrangement steeped in sophisticated trio harmonies and timing that makes the rhythm hop and scoot. Mark both albums as for-the-ages classics. The themes and narratives that have driven his career for a quarter century crystallize here as never before.
He carries us, and his band and audience carry him, from the idealism of “Prove It All Night” to the harsh realities of “Atlantic City” — and still he finds reason to believe in a “Land of Hope and Dreams.
No wonder. A few studio masterpieces notwithstanding, live performance has always been Springsteen’s real medium. Elegant and slyly soulful, delivered with uncommon craft, unexpected sincerity and, as always, an unrivaled sense of humor, The Convincer is the sort of heartbreakingly beautiful pop record fans figured Lowe had in him all along.
Bob Dylan Love and Theft Columbia You can’t repeat the past, someone insists, to which Dylan replies, of course you can. He makes this point throughout, looting melodies and licks from minstrelsy, Tin Pan Alley, and the Chicago and country blues.
Still, his repetitions never descend to mimicry, thanks finally! The sonics are a tad thin — as a producer, Dylan makes a great singer-songwriter — but that hardly matters because of his singular voice, by turns hilarious, sweet and horribly prescient. Even better, it proves that you needn’t sacrifice emotional intimacy to move the crowd.
Scott Miller Thus Always to Tyrants Sugar Hill Leaving home behind, this former V-Roy sets off to become a brand new man, and his solo debut recounts the messes he creates along the way.
The occasional old-time diversion aside, his narratives are presented as fierce rock and roll. The cataclysmic “Across the Line,” for instance, includes menacing electric guitar fleshed out by crashing organ fills and hyperventilating violins. Instead, she makes it swing and sway, swoon and sweat, with a subdued collection of standards.
Yet Blue Gardenia’s dusky ballads are no hothouse flowers. She renders “He’s Funny That Way” chillingly ironic, as if her guy might just be crazy about her, literally. And her five-and-half minute “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying” is so confidently dismissive of a lover that Etta only needs to raise her voice once.
Hip Hop Producer
Jay Thornton Scott Wilson 1. Missing only the manic energy and harmonies of Robert Sledge and Darren Jesse, the other two-thirds of Ben Folds Five, Folds’ solo debut refines his former group’s formula rather than starting from scratch. He’s his own remarkably effective power trio, playing all the bass and drum parts — and most of the guitar — in addition to his primary instrument, the piano. The songs, a mix of Don’t Shoot Me-era Elton John and medium-strength Randy Newman, are marvels of compact character analysis set to foolproof hooks. Elton John Songs From the West Coast Universal It’s no surprise that Elton still has songs like these up his Versace sleeves or even that lyricist Bernie Taupin still remembers how to be blunt when it counts. What’s brilliant about Songs goes beyond the reconvening of these writing partners to fashion their tightest songs in 25 years; the playing, production and, especially, John’s singing jell perfectly and refuse to yield to the studio frippery that marred post albums of otherwise strong songs.
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